Ease My Heart's Grieving
by Violett Prescott
Summary: A RETELLING OF BOOK IV OF THE ODYSSEY, FROM HELEN'S PERSPECTIVE Helen doesn't like to face her emotions, preferring to drown them in heart's ease. But after Hermione's wedding, two strangers arrive at the Spartan court and bring up the past, upsetting the balance. Helen finally realizes just how damage was caused by the fateful Trojan war, and struggles to face the consequences.
1. The Chariot

**Okay, give me a break here... I'll admit, this was a school project, but I'm pretty proud of how it turned out.**

**A few notes:**

**\- All rights go to... I guess Homer? Sounds strange, but really.**

**\- Also, when it was fitting, I used actual quotes from the Robert Fagles translation of the Odyssey, Book 4. If you find them, well, you're a genius. There are some applicable quotes I edited slightly, but they retain the original message. This story was more about filling in the blanks and explaining motives than creating a new situation. Basically meaning, it's meant to be canon!**

_MASK ― SING TO ME OF THE MASK, MUSE, THE MASK OF HELEN OF SPARTA, CONCEALING, ENSHROUDING, THAT COST THE ACHAEANS COUNTLESS LOSSES, AND MUCH GRIEF TO RED-HAIRED MENELAUS AND TO HER OWN SELF._

People don't pay much attention to me anymore, just a nod here or there; maybe I'll catch someone staring when they think I'm not looking. But that's all very well, I suppose. I'm just old news at this point, anyways. But everyone already knows my name, you venture to say. Indeed, perhaps they always will. And by knowing my name, they think they know me. _Helen_, or more descriptively _long-dressed Helen_, perhaps _beautiful Helen_, or even more bluntly, _the shameless whore_. No one will ever know me. How could they, if I don't even know myself.

Even today, as we reach the end of the feast, the fashionable wedding guests have their eyes fixed on someone else. Another woman. Hermione. My daughter.

She is radiant, I must admit, her violet bridal robes modestly flaunting her elegant figure, the curves and smooth lines of youth. A veil conceals most of her face and her flame-red hair, but if you could see underneath, her eyes would be downcast demurely, her cheeks flushed a delicate pink at the attentions. Beside her, her new husband, Neoptolemus, reclines in his seat, looking characteristically smug. He is a son of Achilles, so his physique requires little more explanation. I am, as you might expect, an excellent judge of beauty, but I cannot bring myself to appreciate this man. He is the son of the man who murdered Paris and Hector; chosen simply to insult me.

Menelaus plucked him from the ranks of Spartans fighting to get me back, learned of his parenthood, and pledged my only child to him when she was only nine years old. Oh, to what lengths my husband will go to cause me grief.

Sitting ever faithfully by my side, his infamously red hair streaked with bristling grey, Menelaus chortles with some of his old generals, reminiscing about the old days of the conquests, and the women they ravished while they were there. I smirk; I know he didn't sleep with anyone in Troy; he was too focused on getting me back. He is just trying to hurt me. But he will never get it into his thick head. How could I ever be jealous if I never felt anything towards him in the first place. My lip curls in disgust, the man is utterly nauseating.

But I know how to get my revenge. I peer around the table, seeing who is looking at me at the moment. My eyes land on a sickly looking old man, less teeth in his mouth than not. We hold eye-contact for a long moment before I look away, feigning at embarrassment. I move on to another, a young man with barely a beard. I had seen him watching me earlier, the hungry look of a man without a wife. I smile at him, batting my eyelashes and biting my lip. I continue on.

This is a game I like to play. With my beauty, I can convince every man in the room that he is the object of my desire. I can just go around the table, flirting silently with everyone. I love watching their eyes light up, their chests puff out. Each believes I have chosen him from the crowd. It's entertaining for me, but it tears Menelaus to pieces. I can see him watching me out of the corner of his eye, his cheeks flushed. He is humiliated.

The feast comes to a close as the decrepit bard plays a final wailing note on his lute. The wedding guests rise and make their way to the entry hall of Menelaus' palace, preparing to say their final farewells to the newly-wed couples.

I say couples, because this is, unfortunately, a double wedding. I cannot bring myself to think that my only daughter will be married at the same time as her filthy bastard brother. When Menelaus woefully discovered he could only produce one girl-child by my womb, he moved on, desperate for an heir to the Spartan throne. He chose a particularly enticing slave woman, and she bore him a son, Megapenthes, who has been married to Alector's daughter today. The couple is nothing to behold, might I add; an ugly woman for an ugly man. Her bland features and weasley figure match his lowborn build and lifeless eyes. And yet, this disenchanting pair are somehow going to be the next king and queen of Sparta.

But who knows really. Menelaus never in a million years thought he would be the next king. It was always going to be Agamemnon, the glorious heir. Until my sister slit his throat.

The pair of golden chariots are in position outside the door of the palace and it is time for Menelaus and I to bid our children goodbye. I make my way to Hermione. We were never very close, as I left her when she was barely two and returned after her thirteenth birthday, but I really have no desire to speak with any of the newlyweds (too emotional), but I have to keep up appearances. At least this one is of my own flesh and blood. She leans down from the chariot, her veil still hiding her face from view.

"My best regards to you, child. May the gods keep you in their good favor," I say, nodding at her stiffly and turning to leave.

"Wait, Mother," she says softly, and I stop, turning back to her. She stands up, pulling the veil from her face and smiles shyly. " I wish we could have spent more time together," she says quickly, "but even though I'm leaving, I will come back to visit you. I love you." She reaches for my hand. Her smile falters when I step away from her, a cold washing over me.

"Sit down, and put your veil back on. You're acting like a fool," I say sharply. Hermione blushes, ashamed, and sits down quickly, yanking the violet veil back over her face and folding her hands in her lap, her fingers squeezing together so tightly her knuckles turn white. I stand silently as Menelaus bids the pair farewell, and the chariots race off, out of our court and into the world.

**Okay... so reviews very much welcome! Criticism and praise equally appreciated!**


	2. The Staircase

**Alright, here's the next part!**

Sun setting and a light rain beginning to fall, the local wedding guests return home. The others retire to their rooms, to nurse full stomachs with sleep. Menelaus and I return inside as well, climbing the grand staircase. He reaches to take my hand, but I step away from him, drawing my arms close to my body.

"You are so strange, Helen," Menelaus says, shaking his head, baffled.

"Why do you say that?" I ask icily, turning my back to him.

"All you want is attention, but when you get it, you don't seem to want it anymore."

"You have no idea what I want or don't want," I retort, turning to face him.

"Then tell me, please," Menelaus says, his frustration apparent through his voice, "I have tried everything. I try loving you, and you are cold and distant. I pay you no attention at all and you put on a show, flirting with every other man, practically begging me to notice you. It's an embarrassment to the Spartan throne, and I don't understand it. And then you run off with that scheming Paris, just to cause a scandal. I doubt you ever even loved him; I'm not that naive, Helen. But I still love you, somehow. Love you; not lust after you, like every other man. But maybe that's not what you want. You just love the spectacle, don't you. You'd prefer if I just disappeared, so you could spend your time fornicating with everyone else who worships you like a goddess. But you're no goddess, Helen. You're just a pretty harlot with a crown."

We stand there in silence for a moment, in a staring match with each other. Menelaus' face is flushed and his eyes misty with emotion, while my own are dry, my blood running cold.

"Why all this now?" I ask indifferently.

Menelaus looks as though I've struck him across the face. I know I have won. He wanted me to cry, to break down to tears and throw myself at his feet, begging for his forgiveness. If not that, just a little shame would have sufficed for him, a bit of flush in my cheeks and downcast eyes as he recounted my infidelity. But that only happens in myths.

Menelaus looks away at last, dusting his hands on his robe. "I suppose I just hope Hermione will be a more faithful wife. Not that she's had any good influences."

"Indeed," I say, unflinching, "Now I think I'll return to my rooms."

"Would you like me to accompany you?" he asks weakly, one final chance for atonement.

"I'll walk alone, thank you."

"Suit yourself." Menelaus sighs and turns to head in the other direction.

But we stop as we hear hurried footsteps and turn to see Lord Eteoneus, one of Menelaus' right-hand men, sprinting up the grand stairs after us.

"What is it, Eteoneus?" Menelaus asks, hurrying down the stairs so his inferior doesn't have to climb any higher. My blood curdles at his courtesy.

"Strangers have just arrived, your majesty Menelaus. Two men, but they look like kin of mighty Zeus himself. Tell me, should we bring them in, or send them to someone else who doesn't have so much to manage already, what with the wedding party and all that?"

"Send them away, we don't need any more guests," I call down to them, turning to leave.

"Absolutely not," Menelaus contradicts, and I stop, turning back to face them. "Invite them inside at once. Think of all of the hospitality we enjoyed on our journey home from Troy. We must return the favor if we ever want to receive comfort from strangers again. And perhaps they really are gods. We wouldn't want to offend them, would we?"

"Yes, your majesty," Eteoneus nods and hurries back down the stairs and out the door.

"You're ridiculous," I say once he's gone, rolling my eyes as Menelaus climbs the stairs, a smile playing at his lips, "But do whatever you wish. I'm going to bed."

"No, you're not," Menelaus counters, "You will join me as we eat with them, and then stay with them, like a good host, to hear their story and why they have happened upon our court."

I begin to walk away, ignoring my ill-advised husband. But his hand closes around my wrist and holds me in place. "Hospitality, Helen," he says, "It is your duty as queen. And besides, did you hear? They are two young men. You have a reputation to uphold, giving your attentions to every many in Greece except your own husband."

Surprised at his snide comment, I replied hastily, "Fine. I will come down when you begin questioning them. I have no desire to eat again."

Menelaus nods, "Alright then, I will send up a maid when we're ready for you."

"Fine," I say, and storm off to my room. Once I'm inside, I carefully lock the door behind me and head to my bedside table, where a small wooden box rests. I pour myself a cup of wine from the flagon I keep by my bedside and open the box, taking out a pinch of the contents. Heart's-ease. Eight years ago, a friend in Egypt, Polydamna, introduced it to me. I was sailing home from Troy. We stopped in Egypt to restock on supplies. I was distraught, feeling so much pain and shame and grief after the fall of Troy. And Polydamna, gifted in herbal arts, saw my predicament and slipped me this little box. "Mix it into a bit of wine," she whispered, "and you don't feel a thing. No grief, no anger, no loss. It makes you detached as marble. No one can call us hysterical women any longer, can they." I've used it daily since, with Polydamna keeping me well supplied. It helps me keep myself under control, maintain my composure. Contrary to what Menelaus says, I believe it makes me the perfect queen.

I stir the powdery herb into my cup. I drain the wine and feel my fury fading within me, replaced with a pleasant coolness. _Lovely._ I sit down on the bed, slip the box into my pocket, and look around the royal chambers. I never thought they'd be mine. They were always meant for my twin sister, Clytemnestra. Hatched from the same egg, but so different we were. I had the beauty and poise, but Clytemnestra was clever and wild. As children, it was always a constant battle for attention from our mother, and I always seemed to win, which devastated Clytemnestra. When we married the Atrides brothers, she told me how lucky I was. "Menelaus is kind and gentle, and he loves you," she said jealously, "Meanwhile, I'm cursed to share a bed with Agamemnon for eternity. I have heard he is horribly cruel and prone to violence."

But nevertheless, two sisters married two brothers and everything went along quietly, until one night, eighteen long years ago, when we both retired to bed early. It was our birthday, so before we went to our own rooms, we each told the other our wish. I told her I wanted to elope with Paris, a young prince who had come to visit Agamemnon and Menelaus. She told me she dreamed of killing Agamemnon while he slept. Both wishes came true, I suppose. By dawn, I was stepping off the ship in Troy, with Paris on my arm. The Achaeans left that evening to get me back and didn't return for ten years. But the moment Agamemnon stepped off his ship in Sparta, Clytemnestra stabbed him, only to be stabbed herself a day later by her own son. A cup of wine, mixed with heart's ease of course, and I didn't even mourn her. Probably the safest choice, as defending her would have been outrageous. Menelaus should be proud of my efforts.

A handmaid steps into the room, derailing my thoughts. "Your husband desires you downstairs, your majesty." I stand up and follow her to the feasting hall.

**Again, reviews are much appreciated!**


	3. The Storytelling

**Alright, here's part three... **

The long feasting table seats a scattering of people, mostly wedding guests who have come down for a quick supper before bed. The bard strums his lute, yawning. Menelaus is seated at the head of the table, with two young men, strangers, wrapped in thick woolen cloaks damp from the storm outside. One is lean with dark hair, his demeanor strangely familiar, while his friend is broader and fair. I stand in the doorway, curious to observe them from afar.

"Oh, if only the war hadn't happened at all," Menelaus was saying, shaking his head sorrowfully, "We lost so many lives fighting to bring Helen home, so many brave men. I grieve for them every day. But for no one so much as Odysseus." Menelaus pauses over his name. Both young men lean forward, instantly drawn to the name of the great Achaean hero.

"What happened to him?" the dark-haired young man asked breathlessly.

"Dead or alive, who knows. He was remarkable on the battlefield, his intellect and circumspect proving vital for all our survival. Even I owe him my life. And look how the gods repay him? Leaving his beloved wife and dear son alone with no one to care for them."

The men sit in silence, the dark-haired one staring into his lap, his eyes empty and heartbroken. I suddenly know who he is. He must be the son of Odysseus himself, to feel such grief for any man. His friend, the fair-haired boy, whispers something in his ear, and he nods morosely.

I choose that moment to make my entrance, naturally, shattering the peaceful quiet between the men. I can see Menelaus tense as I take my seat beside him. The two young men stare. I know what they're thinking. The Helen of Sparta, the most beautiful woman in the world. I can't help but feel a little smug as their eyes take in my figure. I might as well give them what they want, if only to aggravate Menelaus.

"Have you figured out who these strangers are yet?" I ask him, winding a wisp of my dark hair around my finger flirtatiously. "Our very special guests?"

"No, not yet, my dear," Menelaus says coldly. He knows I'm enjoying this. But he asked for it, didn't he? Scolding me on the staircase like I was a child.

"Well, I can tell you who they are," I say. I turn, speak directly to the dark-haired boy. "You're the son of the great Odysseus himself? You're Telemachus, aren't you? I know you are," I say teasingly, "because you are just as handsome as your father. Such a shame that he had to leave his darling child behind to fight for me, the shameless whore that I was." I say, letting my robe slip off my shoulder scandalously.

Telemachus blushes scarlet and I swear I can hear Menelaus grinding his teeth. But after my husband peers quizzically at the young man, his face breaks into a smile and he leaps to his feet.

"Well, he is Telemachus, isn't he! Now I see the resemblance! He's the exact replica! Oh, dear Telemachus, you are always welcome in my house."

The dark-haired boy smiles modestly. His friend, who has been quiet all this time, speaks, "Yes, your majesty, he is indeed Telemachus. And I am Pisistratus, his escort. My friend Telemachus longed to see you; to seek your advice. His palace is overrun with suitors after his mother, and no one can come to his defense with his father gone. He has wanted to ask you: Do you know if Odysseus will return home soon?"

Menelaus shakes his head sadly, taking his seat again. "I don't know anything. Only Zeus himself knows. But I believe that Odysseus' journey home was ill-fated from the start. That there… there is little chance of his survival."

The room goes very quiet. Telemachus rests his head in his hands for a long time. His shoulders shake with sobs. When he lifts his head again, his face is a mess of tears. Menelaus's eyes fill with sorrow at the pitiful sight, as do Pisistratus', who puts a steady arm around the sobbing Telemachus. The three men grieve together silently. I don't understand why they let themselves weep. It's so weak, so pathetic. But something in the back of my mind nudges me: _This is your fault. You ran away with Paris, tore families apart, caused everyone all of this pain. This, all of this, was all you, Helen._

But no remorse comes. I dab at my eyes stiffly, trying to look empathetic, but heart's-ease is very effective.

I slip my hand into my pocket to pinch out a bit more of the miraculous herb, to kill the whisper in my head. But when I go to fill my cup with wine, I find the bowl is near empty. I stand up, thankful for an excuse to leave the ocean of tears at the end of the feasting table, and go to the corner, where the flagons of wine sit on a table. The servants stationed around the hall move to help me, but I wave them off. I fill the bowl with the dark mellow wine. It's then that the thought strikes me. If I added some heart's-ease to the mixing bowl, they would stop with their incessant crying. I reach into my pocket, peeking over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching, and pull out the box of heart's-ease. I pour the whole contents into the scarlet wine, stirring it around quickly before returning the mixing-bowl to the table. _Polydamna can always bring me more._

"Why don't we have some more wine. It will get our spirits up again," I say brightly as I take my seat, filling each man's cup with my potion. "Why grieve when we can warm our hearts with the wonderful tales of Odysseus' adventures in Troy?"

Telemachus looks at me, watery eyes wide with hope, "You knew of his adventures?"

"Well, of course I did," I say, inwardly cringing at his pathetic face. "Now drink some of that wine and I'll tell you."

I wait until the cup had touched each of their lips before I began speaking. "Once, while I was walking the streets of Troy, I saw a man dressed as a beggar. But he struck me as familiar, so I brought him to the palace. There, after I'd bathed and dressed him properly, to my surprise, I saw he was your very own father, Odysseus, in a disguise. Of course, I didn't turn him into the Trojans, I would never do that. He told me the whole Achaean strategy for the war. And I told him all I knew of the Trojan scheming. All I wanted was to go home to my beloved husband and dear little daughter, even after Aphrodite twisted my mind into a trance, forcing me to desire that Paris," I said, placing a delicate hand over Menelaus's large, callused one.

"What a lovely story, Helen, very well spun," Menelaus says sarcastically, and I can see him shaking his head in rueful amusement. "Now I have a story of my own."

He stands, taking the place of the bard, who gladly puts down his lute to rest his fingers. Making sure everyone in the room is listening, Menelaus clears his throat and begins his tale.

"I have seen many a heroic act, but none so much as that of your father Odysseus and the great wooden horse. The whole scheme was his idea. We built the great trap from an old wrecked ship and stashed inside our greatest warriors, your father among them. But once we had entered the city, my dear wife Helen, certainly in that trance you were just speaking about, decided to walk around the great contraption, knocking on its flanks, feeling if it was hollow."

Suddenly he is just telling the story to me. I watch him as he watches me, eyes gleaming. He looks for my reaction, challenging me to contradict.

"Yes," he continues, "escorted by your close friend, the Trojan Prince Deiphobus, you called out each of the warriors within by name, begging them to come out. And what's more, you imitated the voices of their wives while doing so. You knew so well the tones of Clytemnestra, of Penelope, of Tecmessa, and Meda, all of them you mocked until the men were scrambling to get out of the wooden horse to see if their dear wives were really there. Only Odysseus could see through your evil trick. He explained to everyone what was going on and they settled back down; all except Anticlus, who so feared his beloved Laodamia was in danger than he tried to call out to you. But valiant Odysseus covered the writhing man's mouth until you gave up hope and left us in peace, to try and sabotage your own rescue in some other way."

**Oof... here we go. Don't we all love some Homeric marriage drama ;)**


	4. The Balcony

**We've come to it... the final chapter. Enjoy!**

Telemachus and Pisistratus sit dumbly for a moment, both staring at me with wide eyes, waiting to see my response. The servants too, and all the wedding guests murmur throughout the feasting hall, the sound slowly building to laughter. The whole room, laughing at me. I want to run, run far away, but can't bring myself to move. My limbs are like lead, my head spinning. My face feels hot. Menelaus, pleased with himself, sits back down beside me cockily.

At last, Telemachus shakes his head, still grinning. "What a remarkable story, and how proud I am to be the son of such a man. But your majesties, please send us off to bed. It's late and my friend and I would like to enjoy the sweet relief of sleep."

Knees weak, I stand up shakily and call some handmaids to my side. "Make a bed for our guests on the porch." The maids nod and run off, stifling their laughter.

Without looking back, I hurry quickly out of the feasting hall, keeping my shoulders back and my chin up, giving the impression that I was simply insulted, not exposed. But I can still feel their laughter chasing me. I reach my chambers and hide behind those great wooden doors, locking them behind me to keep the laughter at bay. I feel _emotions_ welling up inside me; sorrow, anger, fear, but most of all humiliation. What I did while I was in Troy doesn't matter. It was all just a terrible mistake. An accident.

Paris was a beautiful man, and I was a beautiful woman. "We belong together. We're made for each other," he told me once, "The gods have willed it." I teased and flirted with him like I do every other man, but for the first time, he teased and flirted with me right back. I didn't love him, I doubt I've ever truly loved anyone, but I was fascinated by him. I was haughtier then, and I believed what he said, that we were meant to be together. So I followed him to Troy. I was tired of my life anyway. I had no idea I was going to be queen. I didn't know my leaving would matter. It's not my fault. I didn't expect anyone to care. I didn't expect them to come after me, to leave their homes and give up their lives for my mistake.

But now I am the queen. I feel a lump forming in my throat; so much pain, so much sorrow, so much heartache. I don't even know what I'm feeling. Is it regret? Shame? Hatred?

I fumble in my pocket for the box of heart's-ease, but suddenly remember, it's empty. I used the last of it in the wine in the feasting hall. My blood runs cold and my hands begin to shake. Those beautiful hands, divine hands. A cool breeze flutters the curtains that hang in the threshold to the balcony. I follow the chill of the wind outside, and soon find myself pressed against the stone railing of the balcony. It's still raining, and below I can see the droplets blurring the black, mirror-like surface of the lake below.

Long ago, I used to pass by that lake, just so I could see my reflection. I never lingered too long, for fear that I might drown like Narcissus. But deep down I knew I had nothing to fear. I could admire my divine image all I wanted. Zeus would protect me from falling in. But now I turn my face to the heavens, blinking into the downpour. "Zeus! Father!" I call out, "What have I done!"

The rain intensifies, pelting at my skin like tiny rocks, like Zeus was stoning me, each time exposing a new secret: Foolish girl. Pretty harlot. Runaway mother. Adulteress. Fraud. Traitor.

I feel my heart aching within me. They are all true. But here is my final secret. I wish I was any other woman. I wish I wasn't _beautiful_. All through my life, my beauty has been my flaw, my agony, causing me so much misery. I've never wanted anything more than to be ordinary, like everyone else. But the gods cannot grant me even that, not even the simplest request.

I climb up to stand on the railing, my delicate sandals slipping on slick stone. I'm ready to end this right here. I look down, rain running in rivulets down my neck and under my robe. It's a long drop from here to the lake below. Maybe I can make it look like an accident. I imagine myself when they find me, floating lithely in the lake like Aphrodite. A fitting demise for the most beautiful woman in the world.

Balancing carefully on the ledge, I prepare to throw myself off.

"Helen, don't move!" I hear a voice call from behind me. I ignore them, and am about to step off the edge when I feel warm arms around my waist, holding me down. I try to shake them off, "Let go of me! Stop it! Leave me alone!"

But they are unyielding, easing me down from the railing and guiding me gently back inside the room. Inside, the sound of the rain softens from a roar to a whisper, the light of the oil lamps casting a soft glow on everything. I look up to see Menelaus, his red hair dripping with rainwater. At first I feel anger, then it fades away, but not from heart's-ease. From relief. I'm still alive.

"How did you get in here?" I murmur, my voice barely more than a croak.

"I have a key," he says, and produces a small key from the pocket of his robe.

"I see," I say shakily, and Menelaus chuckles softly.

I sit down on the bed as he pulls the curtains shut, silencing the howling rain. I feel hot tears gathering in my eyes and slipping down my cheeks. Menelaus turns back to me.

"I apologize if I caused you this grief, Helen," Menelaus says. "Everything I said in the feasting hall, I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just jealous and resentful and I-"

"It is true," I interrupt, standing up and approaching him, "And I caused my own grief, by trying to take it away. I felt such shame when the war was over, I tried to escape from the pain, but trying to only made it worse."

My weeping increases. It is as if all the tears I have suppressed for so long are just surfacing now, pouring from my sorrowful eyes.

I want to go to Menelaus, to cling to him, to let him hold me in his warm embrace, help me ease my heart's grieving. Is this what I wanted all along? To be loved? Truly loved for myself, not my beauty. No one has ever truly loved me before, Menelaus told me on the staircase, no one except him.

"I hope you can forgive me, Menelaus," I venture, wiping the tears from my eyes with a quivering hand. "I have been a truly despicable wife, taunting you and tugging at your heart. The war destroyed me, and I thought I could never be healed. It dashed me to pieces, and you were the one most wounded by the shards. But through it all, you were always so good to me, so gentle and kind. You loved me, even though I was so cruel. But I've changed now, see? We are meant for each other." The same words from so long ago, from the lips of a beautiful man that meant nothing to me. But from my lips, they mean everything. My eyes grow watery with the joy of it all. But Menelaus doesn't seem to understand. I am telling him at last the words he has always wanted to hear. That I love him.

These new, raw emotions burning within me, I reach for him, ready for his love. But Menelaus dodges me, stepping away from me and moving toward the door. I stare, my breath caught in my throat, dumbfounded as he shakes his head mournfully. "Maybe we were meant for each other, at some time, but you, _you_ Helen, you were right all along. The war destroyed us all, and we _cannot_ be healed."

He turns and leaves, the great wooden doors hanging empty behind him. I remain, still reaching for him, my fingers outstretched, like a blind man fumbling in the darkness.

_AND SO LONG-DRESSED HELEN OF SPARTA, DAUGHTER OF ZEUS, DISSOLVED INTO TEARS UNTIL ROSY-FINGERED DAWN SHONE ONCE MORE._

**And that's it! Thanks for reading! ;)**


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